Irene Radford - Thistle Down

“She needs more than a few laughs. She needs to find someone she can take a mating flight with,” Thistle mused. The music inside her soared in memory.

“A what?” both girls asked in chorus.

“In Pixie, when you fall in love, the truly, deeply, forever kind of love, you both fly up to the tallest branches of the Patriarch Oak in the center of The Ten Acre Wood, the one with mistletoe. Then the female flattens her wings, the male grasps her from behind, and they plummet downward. His wings will slow the flight, but aren’t strong enough to actually fly them both. The girl has to trust him to get her to the ground safely.” Thistle settled on the floor in a corner with her legs crossed. Her middle ached so badly she couldn’t stand up anymore. Her internal music died on a sour note.

“Before you can love that deeply, you have to be friends. There’s responsibility in friendship.”

“Wow! That sounds like the best kind of love ever.” Meggie’s eyes glazed over, lost in a dream.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to face each other, so both of the Pixies can support the flight?” M’Velle asked. She sounded a bit bewildered.

“Oh, that’s fun, too,” Thistle brightened a bit. “But the other, the mating flight depends on that deep and abiding trust. You have to trust the man with your life as well as your heart and soul. He completes you, and fulfills you. There’s nothing else like it.”

“What a beautiful metaphor. Pixie love. I’ll have to use that expression, start a new fad,” Meggie said dreamily, still lost in her imagination. “Maybe I’ll write a story about it.”

“Sounds like you’ve had one of those kinds of relationships.” M’Velle’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “What happened? I mean why did the police drop you off here with nothing but a borrowed T-shirt to wear? Seems to me, if you had a guy you trusted so much, you should have called him rather than Dusty Carrick.”

“He betrayed me,” Thistle replied softly. And I’ll have my revenge on Alder yet .

“If my boyfriend ever did that to me, I’d kill him,” M’Velle insisted.

“Killing is too good for him,” Thistle said, an unmusical chuckle formed in the back of her throat. “I gave him a comeuppance. A really good one.” She laughed long and hard in memory of her best trick ever.

Then she sobered as she remembered how Alder had lashed out in anger. He’d blasted her so hard she’d landed in Memorial Fountain, stark naked in the middle of rush hour without wings to fly her back home.

No Pixie ever plays tricks on another Pixie. Ever. Go live with humans a while and learn to appreciate being the victim of Pixie tricks , Alder had said.

“Dusty needs to learn to trust people again. I know just the man she belongs with,” Thistle said instead, looking toward Joe Newberry’s office as the sound of childish giggles erupted in the background. “And you girls are going to help me teach her.” Maybe then Thistle Down could find a way home.

“What? No way.”

Thistle loosened her clenched fists, hoping she had a little Pixie dust left. With a sharp flash of her arms she flicked her fingers at the girls. A satisfying shaft of lavender, pink, blue, and gold sparkles shot forth from each fingertip.

Meggie and M’Velle gasped in wonder. “What was that?” they asked in unison.

“A diversion to get your attention. Now listen to me,” Thistle insisted.

“Well why didn’t you just say you had, you know, like something important to say,” Meggie grumbled.

“This is important. Dusty is your friend.”

Both girls rolled their eyes in response.

“Believe me, she is. How else did you get your jobs this summer? She spoke up for you. She helped you both get better grades in school, so you’d qualify for the jobs.” She silently thanked the network of Pixie gossip for that bit of information.

“Yeah, she did,” M’Velle admitted. “And I appreciate it. She showed me the best way to get away from prejudice is to get an education.”

“So now it’s time for you to be a friend to her. Go talk to Dusty. Nothing special, just be friendly, recount your day, laugh at the antics of the children in your tour groups. Let her know that you trust her with your secrets. Be as good a friend to her as she has been to you,” Thistle instructed. “I just wish I could go downstairs and help, but underground is death to a Pixie,” she mumbled to herself.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t assemble your float on the museum grounds tomorrow. The rules say you have to bring it here complete for judging.” Dusty said anxiously into the phone in Joe’s office. The room was too quiet. She needed background music to keep her from listening to the old house creak as it settled. Or strain to hear how Thistle was getting on with Meggie and M’Velle.

Her boss had taken his daughters to day care and then gone home to change to casual business clothes. She had the place to herself for a couple of minutes until Thistle or Meggie or someone else came looking for her with a problem only she could solve.

“But we just can’t get everyone assembled at the garage and then transport them all to the museum by nine!” wailed the chairman of the Chamber of Commerce.

“I’m sorry, sir. Those are the rules you agreed to when you sent in your application for a place in the parade. You signed the agreement. Besides, there will be another activity on the grounds that won’t be clear until nine. You cannot show up early just to assemble your hay bales and park benches on the back of a flatbed truck.”

The man complained and grumbled with a threat to take the restrictions to the City Council. Dusty held firm, happy that she could conduct this conversation over the phone and not have to face the man. One scowl, and she knew she’d cave in to his demands and ruin the inspection for the grant.

Eventually, he hung up on her.

No sooner had she replaced the phone in its cradle when it rang again.

“Ms. Carrick, I really must insist you open your parents’ home for the Historical Tour Wednesday night,” Janelle Meacham, chair of the Historical Preservation Committee, demanded without preamble. “It’s bad enough that Mabel Gardiner won’t open her home. We can’t bypass yours as well.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Meacham. I can’t do that. My parents are on sabbatical until September. No one will be home to decorate and show the public rooms.” Dusty bit her lip. She began to shake at the idea of playing hostess to hundreds of strangers wandering through the big Queen Anne style home and gardens.

“Nonsense, what else have you and Dick to do with your time? I’ll email you the recipe for those shortbread cookies…”

“No. I can’t eat white flour or processed sugar. I will not bake for your tour, nor will I cancel several meetings and appointments to be there. You will just have to do without stopping at the house. You can admire the gardens from the street.”

“But your mother always…”

“I am not my mother.” This time Dusty hung up first.

Hands shaking as much as her middle, she made a note to make sure Dick mowed the lawn.

Her lunch wanted to come up. She wished now she hadn’t eaten the second half of the chicken salad on homemade whole wheat bread. She’d eaten no red meat and only organic fruits and vegetables, free-range chicken, or wild-caught fish for so long she didn’t think she could digest anything else. But today, even her wholesome diet felt like a lump of processed glue.

She needed a long walk in the fresh air. But the emails for the coming week of festivities kept piling up.

The phone rang again.

“Damn.” Dusty stared at the malevolent tool of society. She blushed at her own bad language. Thought a moment. “Double damn. Skene County Historical Society,” she answered sweetly.